PR 




mmmSmmwr 



mmm 






m 



% 



r 5 



mmmm 



wM 



mSoM 
HP 



V 



infill 



n 



mm 
HI 



V 



* v * 



■ 



(.A 



M 



V. ; ! ! 



ANONYMOUS 



1 



5>* 




.)yj'f7 v -^' 




GiassJ ^__ 

Book 




V 



ANONYMOUS POEMS. 



-OXlyrj ktjJas. — - 



LONDON 
RICHARD BENTLEY, 

4Jublisljcv in evtiinavy to %)tx Majesty. 
1850. 






LONDON : 

Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. 



887270 
♦29 



PREFACE. 



The few, and short, copies of verses here published, 
were written at different times during forty years. Most 
of them therefore have the full benefit, so much recom- 
mended by Horace, (but probably never less practised 
than in the present time, when every body works quick, 
and yet expects to last long) of long keeping. 

But though hasty publication is likely to lead to hasty 
judgment, I am afraid it does not follow, that impartial 
judgment as to one's own productions, will be secured by 
long delay. It is as with persons ; familiarity may breed 
contempt, but it may, on the other hand, grow into a 
certain sort of habitual liking, naturally mistaken for 
approbation. 

To publish a very small volume of verses, seems to 
require an apology; I suppose, because it seems to mean, 
that they are thought to be something better than usual. 
For, it is in vain to tell an author that he seems to be 
conceited enough to think his verses good; that is implied 
in every instance by the publication itself. If a man does 
not think his verses good, he is foolish towards him self, 
and impertinent towards the public, to publish them. 
But as to the smallness of the collection, I must say, that 
since first I heard of that epigram of Martial's, 

"Sunt bona, sunt qiMedam mediocria, sunt malu plura 

Quae legis hie ; alitcr 11011 fit, Avitc, liber." 



IV PREFACE. 

I have always asked, why, except with a view to the 
profit, can it not ? Why might he not have left out the 
bad poems, at least, if not the middling ones, the former 
of which, he says, constituted the majority, if he knew 
which they were ? He maintains, indeed, elsewhere, the 
intrinsic superiority of an unequal writer over an equal 
one. But the question is of publishing, not of writing. 
If a man has written a play, or any such entire composi- 
tion, of which one part is better than another, it must 
take its chance altogether. But when his work consists of 
nothing but a collection of separate epigrams, it is hard to 
see why he was under the necessity of leaving, in the 
book, that inequality which existed in the portfolio. In 
fact, it seems to follow from Martial's confession, that it 
is the long book rather, of the two, that requires the 
apology ; as being likely, wilfully, to contain, and obtrude 
upon the reader, many things that are bad. Callimachus, 
in those verses from which my motto is taken, boldly 
asserts the superiority of his own poems over those of 
poets who wrote, he says, " as much as the sea f and the 
poetess Erinna is highly extolled, in a beautiful epigram, 
for a production of only two hundred lines, compared to 
the numberless works of other writers. 

However, whether an apology is wanted or not, I have 
none to give, except that I have left out several, and that 
any thing is better than to write invito, Minerva, for the 
sake of filling up a volume. 

As to some of the verses, it is unnecessary to say, thai 
it is the business of poets to place themselves in ima- 
ginary states; especially as to certain subjects. 

F. C. 



"What tidings hast thou, savage tempest of ocean? 

What sky was thy mother, what country thee bore ? 
"What home hast thou left, in thy far-sweeping motion, 

The snow-cover' d land, or the ice-burden' d shore ? 

What prisons of frost, by no summer succeeded, 
Where glimmers askance the sun's low-rolling ray, 

By the bear unexplored, by the walrus unheeded, 
Dark hinge of the globe, set thee forth on thy way ? 

What eye shall e'er pierce, where thy birth was engendered ? 

Where life, that fills all, cannot struggle to be ; 
A desert, to wild uncreation surrendered ! 

What horrible secrets are folded in thee ? 

But no voice has the tempest, to scatter instruction ; 

To wreck, and to wither, its terrible doom ; 
Cold offspring of death, bitter tool of destruction, 

In all its dread roaring, as mute as the tomb. 



Sweet zephyr, what voice, on thy balmy breath stealing, 
Can whisper our fancy to freedom and rest ? 

Calm regions of pleasure and beauty revealing, 
murmur the songs of thy home in the West ! 

tell us of scenes, without care or commotion, 

Where all the world's tumults and tyrannies cease ; 

What never- vext isle, on the bosom of ocean, 
Soft nursling of nature, sinks gently to peace ? 



Nymph of this pellucid spring, 
Take our duteous offering : 
Teach us, thro' the vale of life, 
Undebas'd by vulgar strife, 
Our pure course like thee to keep, 
Tenant of this hoary steep ! 
Still, like thee, with duteous care, 
To aid the weary traveller ; 
Till, with even path, we glide 
Down to Death's resistless tide, 
And mix an unpolluted wave 
In the ocean of the grave. 



FRAGMENTS 

INTENDED FOR A COPY OF VERSES TO BE SPOKEN AT OXFORD, IN 1814, 
AFTER THE VISIT OF THE ALLIED SOVEREIGNS. 



But foiled in fight, untaught to bear control, 
Could fortune tame his yet unconquer'd soul ? 
Did Honour still the hero's steps attend, 
Or bold Despair immortalize his end ? 
spare the taunt — the Muse disdains to tell 
How low the Lord of many nations fell ; 
No ! pale, disguised, and cowering, let him live, 
Nor drag to light the trembling fugitive. 

* * * * 

He flies — a refuge Elba's rocks afford, 
And the bleak isle receives her felon lord. 

<r* *t^ *T* 1^ 

A narrow speck amid the dreary main — 

* * * * 

He wakes at length, — the dream is fled away, 

The ten years' vision of imperial sway. 

* * * * 



There let his self-consuming spirit prey 
On his own thoughts, and waste his soul away; 
Or brood in dreams, unscepter'd and alone, 
On fancied crowns, and conquests not his own. 
* * * * 

And say, shall we, with thoughtless pride elate, 

Slight the grave warning of his awful fate ? 

The still small voice, that speaks in Vict'ry's ear, 

And checks Ambition in its mad career, 

Bids the proud chief, while nations round him bend, 

Adore him conqueror, or hail him friend, 

The sad reverse of earthly pow'r mistrust, 

— So Scipio wept, when Carthage sunk to dust. 



Ludlow ! thy mossy banks and groves among 
(Ere yet the hand of Time thy princely bow'rs 
Had sunk in mute decay, and o'er thy tow'rs 
The sober hues of Melancholy flung) 

With mirth and revelry these echoes rung, 

And masque and music sped the laughing hours, 
What time sage Milton tried his youthful powers, 
And the foiFd wiles of wizard Comus sung. 

Mute now the voice of heavenly minstrelsy, 

That charmed these walls of old ; nor other sound 
Breaks the still night, save gently murmuring by 

Teme's silver stream, thy castled steep around, 
While reigns the moon in silent majesty, 
And forms unseen still guard the hallow' d ground. 



GREEK EPIGRAM. 



I send a chaplet, Chloe, for your hair, 

Just culFd by my own hands, and wove with care ; 

The lily and dark-gleaming violet meet, 

Soft daffodil, and rose-bud ever sweet ; 

Thus crown' d, no longer boast, too haughty maid ; 

You, and your chaplet, do but bloom and fade. 



Which will away, and do together 

Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 

CAREW. 

This is the foundation of Prior's " Garland." Prior was familiar 
with the Greek epigrams apparently, and fond of them. 

It is a pity that the term epigram is still applied to the poems of the 
Greek Anthology, in those languages, in which its ordinary meaning 
has become so much more restricted. It leads many persons to complain 
of them as flat, being led to expect something comic or pointed. Those 
among them, comparatively few, which are really what we now call 
epigrams, are seldom good; and all, I believe, of the later, perhaps even 
of the Roman, periorl. 



SIMONIDES. 



At Dirphys' foot we fell ; near Aulis stands 
Our tomb, reared stately by our country' s hands ; 
'Twas due — life's cheerful prime we lost for them, 
Biding, unscar'd, black war's rough cloud to stem. 



CALLIMACHUS. 



Crethis, young prattler, full of graceful play, 
Vainly the maids of Samos seek all day ; 
Cheerfullest workmate, ever talking. — She 
Sleeps here ; that sleep, from which none born can flee. 



The Greek epitaphs are remarkably good ; both where they express 
the common places of epitaphs merely, and where they take advantage of 
some particular circumstances in the individual's fate, or character. I 
wish we had a good selection of the old English epitaphs in verse. 



10 



ON A LADY KISSING A BOOK IN A COURT OF JUSTICE. 



AvBpojTTOQ ti TcaQio ; /ecu %v\ov aladaverai . 



O Jove ! what charter have those lips, to deal 

Abroad those kisses so unthriftly lavished ? 

If the dull parchment cannot choose but feel, 

How deem'st thou then our hearts (fair girl) are ravish'd ! 



Upon this subject, a very eminent -writer wrote some lines in Latin 
extempore, some half century ago, which he was very speedily told, by 
an ingenious person, were borrowed from Lord Surrey ; and a copy of 
verses, in the old English style, was produced the next morniug to 
support this charge of plagiary ; which took in every body, till the book 
could be got at. 



II 



The sun is not so cheerful as your eyes, 
Less comfort brings it to the wounded mind 

When discontent and fever'd thoughts arise, 
Your voice is softer than the western wind : 

The charms of nature, that all* cares remove 

Are not so precious as your constant love. 



* Donde toda a tristeza se desterra. 

CAMOKNS. 



12 



IN SOLIS TU MIHI TURBA LOCIS. 



There is a heart, fast linked with mine, 

There is a spirit, one with me ; 
There is a friend, whose thoughts entwine 

About my very wish to be ; 
One, in remotest distance, near, 

In deepest solitude, at hand, 
Whose love the blackest gloom can cheer, 

The closest sullenness expand ; 
And add a ten times brighter gleam 
To smiling fortune's sunny beam. 



13 



I seek no collars, rough with sculptured gold, 
Ambition's prize, to mantle on my breast ; 

More proud my shoulders, which your arms enfold, 
More rich, in Love's dear clasping circle prest. 

Bear hence those honours, gift of mighty kings, 
Victorious chiefs unenvy'd they may deck ; 

Vain are the showy gifts that Glory brings, 

To what Affection twines about my neck. 



14 



Facta aliena licet sseva atque injusta, quid ad me ? 
Hsec mea, qua3 feci ; non mea, quae patior. 



Me Catuli, Bruti, me laudavere Catones ; 
Sit decus et, Clodi, non placuisse tibi. 



15 



There is never a king, with his crown of gold, 

That can bid my torments cease ; 
There is never a spell, were it ten times told, 

That can charm my thoughts to peace. 
I have known what it is to be proud and high, 

That am scorned by the meanest slave ; 
I have known the light glance of the sparkling eye, 

That am coward, and hush'd, and grave. 
I have known what it is to be followed and fear'd 

For the pow'r, that has past away ; 
t have known what it is to be lov'd and cheer'd 

By the heart, that is cold in clay. 
I have known what it is to be honest and right, 

I am racked by remorseful fear \ 
I have known the sweet calm of the peaceful night, 

— And the never -quenched flame* lies here. 



* Vathek. 



16 



PETRARCH. 



SONNET 238. 

Where the birds warble, and the summer breeze 
Still softly whispers thro 5 the rustling trees, 
Or the sweet murmur of a streamlet clear, 
Stretched on its verdant bank of flow'rs, I hear, 
There I sit pensive, and with sighs deplore 
My soul's dear idol, now beheld no more ; 
Heaven, pitying wretched mortals, gave her birth, 
Now she lies wrapt in undistinguished earth. 
But hark ! while sad I write, revived again, 
Soft from afar, she answers to my strain ; 
" Why do thy days in useless sorrow flow ? 
" Why melt thine eyes in never-ceasing woe V 9 
Pitying she cries, " My mortal stage is past, 
" Weep not for me, my days for ever last, 
" And when I seem'd on earth to close my sight, 
*' I wak'd, exalted in eternal light." 



17 



SONNET 8. 

Thou Prince illustrious, on whom relies, 
As on a pillar firm, the race divine 
Of ancient Rome, and Latiurn's royal line, 
That still the storms of angry fate defies, 

Nor tow'r nor palace, here, nor domes arise, 

But 'stead of these, the beech, the oak, the pine, 
Where peaceful vales and craggy mountains join, 
Raise the rapt fancy to its kindred skies, 

All musing as I tread the lonely hills ; 

While plaintive Philomel, the livelong night, 
Soft to the moon her woes thick-warbling trills, 

And with Love's pleasing pain my bosom fills j 
Yet while thou art not here, to glad my sight, 
Vain are my joys, imperfect my delight. 



18 



CAMOENS. 



In peace, fair Inez, till that fatal time, 
Passed the soft season of thy youthful prime, 
Wrapt in the fond delusive dream of joys, 
That cruel Fortune still too soon destroys, 
Among the valleys that Mondego laves, 
Proud to reflect thy beauties in his waves, 
Thou bad'st each hill repeat the name, imprest 
And deep engraven on thy youthful breast. 



2. 



Nor less thy Prince, when absent from thy arms, 
Fix'd in his heart, would still retrace thy charms ; 
His fond remembrance bade thy fonn arise, 
Answered thy love, and echoed back thy sighs ; 
By night deceitful visions, and by day 
Hopes of unreal bliss, that passed away, 
In sweet enchantment could his hours employ, 
And all he thought, and all he saw, was joy. 



19 



CAMOENS. 



As the fair flow'r, that bright in vernal prime, 
Untender hands have cropt before its time, 
Cull'd for a wreath to grace the wanton fair, 
Now pining droops amid the spoiler's hair ; 
Its fragrance flies, its vivid hues decay, 
So sunk in death the pallid victim lay ; 
Her lips' fresh rose is withered, and fast fleets 
The glowing hue of life, as life retreats. 



In Cintra's stream conceal' d the Naiads lie, 
And fondly hope from Love's soft snares to fly ; 
In vain — his net the wily Cupid throws, 
And the scorch'd nymph amid the water glows. 



20 



CAMOENS. 



LUSIAD, CANTO IV. 



Through every band the foul contagion ran, 
Disloyal terror spread from man to man, 
Th' opposed numbers aw'd th' inferior host, 
And all their native energy was lost ; 
Not thus brave Nuno, — with disdain he glow'd, 
And through the camp, in rage superior, strode ; 
Indignant he addressed the trembling throng, 
Rough were his words, not eloquent but strong, 
With sword in hand, in angry majesty, 
As if he threatened earth, and seas, and sky. 

"What ! lives there one, who yields his country's fame, 
Yet dares to boast the Lusitanian name ? 
What ! from that land, renowned and fear'd from far, 
Queen of the nations, sovereign in war, 
Shall one be born, who from her standard flieSj 
His name, his faith, his country, who denies, 
Denies his aid in danger, and would see 
His native Portugal in slavery? 



21 



" Are ye not sprung from those, who ranged of yore 
Beneath the banner of Henriquez, bore 
Defeat and slaughter through the foil'd array 
Of those same Spaniards, whom you fear to-day ? 
Think how they trembled then, how many a band, 
How many a nation, fled your conqu'ring hand, 
How vast the spoils ! a more than vulgar prey, 
Sev'n captive Counts confessed the victor's sway. 

'• And say, in later ages, who controul'd 
Those, whom you now with other thoughts behold, 
When Dionysius rous'd the patriot fire, 
And great Alfonso, worthy of his Sire, 
Who, but your fathers, then for glory bled, 
And bravely followed where their princes led ? 
What though you moum'd, in base Femando's reign 
Your country's weakness, and your monarch's stain, 
The patriot king, who now adorns the throne, 
Bids each aspire with virtue like his own ; 
A> princes change, the people, weak or great, 
Their follies share, their virtues emulate ; 
Raised to the sceptre by the gen'ral voice, 
No coward now contaminates your choice. 
No ! could your might with his high courage vie, 
Where'er you fought, your enemies must fly > 



22 



All must be yours ; then hesitate no more 
To face a foe so oft subdVd before. 

" But if you strive against your fears in vain, 
Bow down, and court with upraised hands the chain ; 
Your abject necks beneath the victor bend; 
I and my vassals will my King defend ; 

Defend with this " (he spoke, and wav'd his sword,) 

" The land, that never own'd a foreign lord ; 
When in my sovereign's name I draw the blade, 
In my lost country's cause, by you betrayed, 
Not these alone shall feel my vengeful hand, 
But all, who dare my prince's right withstand ; 
And with these foes, let thousands more combine, ■ 
To meet, and to overthrow them all, be mine V* 



23 



CAMOENS. 



From him we have our law, whose powerful sway 
Invisible and visible obey, 

Who formed all beings, and from nothing brought 
The world of matter, and the world of thought, 
Disgrace, and shame, and pain, for us who bore, 
Died innocent, that we might die no more, 
And down on earth descended from the skies, 
To make mankind to heav'n from earth to rise. 



24 



CAMOENS. 



As from the polished steel, or crystal bright, 
Reflected flies the momentary light, 
When on the mirror strikes the solar ray, 
And swift returned obliquely shoots away ; 
Where'er, intent on sport, the careless boy 
Through all the house directs the curious toy ; 
The walls, the roofs, receive the flickering glare, 
Now trembling here, now agitated there. 



Camoens has endeavoured to give originality to the beautiful simile 
of Apollonius and Virgil, by making the light be reflected purposely 
by the motion of a mirror, instead of accidentally by the fluctuation 
of water in a bucket ; but it is not altered for the better. 



25 



Actum est — excessit mea lux, solusque relinquor 
Deseror — ut magno frigore, corda rigent : 

Nee prensare manum, nee vultum attollere contra 
Sustinu, atque humili dicere voce, vale ! 

Sed quocunque viam, carissima, flectis, amator 
Ex animo veris prosequitur lacrimis. 



26 



And dost thou shine at thus, fair moon, 

Struggling through fleeces soft and pure thy way ? 

Now hid in dark uncertainty, and soon 
Full beaming in unmingled blue thy ray ? 

And is there one, a heart of angel mould, 

An eye, blest throne of deep sincerity, 
Watching thy quiet path from fold to fold, 

With thoughts, that mocking distance, dwell with me ? 

I know there is — what fancy dar'd not dream, 
Undoubted truth has made my daily treasure, 

My happy memory's unexhausted theme, 

A bliss, more proud than fame, more sweet than pleasure. 



27 



MALHEBBE. 

But she was of the world, whose choicest bloom 

Does first decay ; 
A rose, the life of roses was her doom, 

A single day. 



28 



FOR AN IMAGINARY PROSE TRANSLATION 
OF HOMER. 



Plain and on foot go forth, immortal bard ! 
Unperishable voice of elder time, 
Fountain of thought, echoed in ev'ry rhyme, 
Inspiring even such, as never heard 

Thy mighty speech, nor manly feeling shared : 
Home of the free-born soul, in ev'ry clime, 
That flies, to thy deep lonely rest sublime, 
From a vain world, by tyrant trifles marr'd. 

— Shorn of thy matchless majesty of tongue, 
Thy lofty, sweet, unforced, melodious flow, 
The rich, uncumber'd utterance of thy mind, 

Shorn of thy measured verse, but meeter so, 
Than varnished o'er with any meaner song, 
Than in barbaric trappings strange entwined. 



29 



In welcome darkness I lay down my head ; 

As to a calmer world, from this I flee ; 
The weary ways of men extinct and dead, 

My soul shuts up into the love of thee. 

When, fresh to life, I hail another morn, 

Into thy heart my first clear thoughts awaken, 

Into that dear reality new-born, 

Lapt in that atmosphere of joy unshaken. 



30 



TU NOCTE VEL ATRA LUMEN. 



Tossed on a wild, tumultuous sea, 

I roll in an unsteady bark ; 
Above, around, I nothing see, 

But stormy clouds, involved and dark ; 
Save where, half through them, or between, 

Upon a cliff, a tow'r on high, 
Far off, unchanged, though dimly seen, 

Fixes, alone, my wand'ring eye : 
Unshaken by the seas and wind, 

It shoots a soft, small, constant ray ; 
Such is, to me, thy steadfast mind, 

When ills oppress my doubtful way. 



31 



Op love, of real love, we must not write ; 

" Mere empty trash, or childish affectation, 
" Despised, distrusted, and unfitting quite 

" For thought, or sense, or nobler occupation." 
Then Milton's mind was framed of flimsy mould, 

And Pope was all unfit for graver thought, 
And u serious" Spenser* had been better cold, 

And none but children are by Horace taught. 
Then was the Tuscan, at whose very namet 

Divine delight and thrilling horror swell, 
Sounding, with head of steel, and heart of flame, 

Man's inmost nature, in the depths of hell ; 
Who first the prison-bars of fancy broke, 

Scattered at once, the long, dull, turbid dream, 
Rous' d full-form' d Mind, rebellious, from the yoke, 

— The silly trifler of a silly theme. 



* Bishop Hall, " Our sage, serious Spenser." 

f Divina voluntas Percipit atque horror. — lucr. 

I suppose it is hardly necessary to explain, that Dante wrote 
abundance of lovc-verscs; some of them, as Boccaccio asserts, when 
be was old. 



32 

And is it true ? are we so cold and wise ? 

Our sober reason can no passion thaw ? 
No — let yon " eldest of the gods" arise, 

And in grave accents vindicate his law. 
" Vain, solemn, trifling, artificial age, 

" Thy nature is below me, not above ; 
" Timid, uneasy, sneering ; not too sage, 

" But too ridiculous, to value Love." 



33 



INTENDED FOR THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 



Torrents, that never flashed on human eye, 
And wide waste places,* by man's foot untrod, 

And cliffs, where still and pensive piety 

Broods on these speaking monuments of God ! 

Why comes the stranger from the sea-beat isle, 
Pilgrim of Nature, these lone wilds to tread ? 

Loves he the solemn vow, the voiceless pile, 
Or venerates his soul the martyred dead ? 

The dead he seeks indeed — no saint austere> 
But the great master of the lofty lay ; 

Genius of England, thou ait mighty here, 
And Bruno's convent is the shrine of Gray. 

* Sackville, Induction to M. of Magistrates. 



34 



— And are they forms of earth, that I descry, 
Or the gay, gorgeous mansions of the sky ? 
Over the lengthening valley, rising slow, 
From the dark forest, and the pale cold snow ? 
No ! the dear vision of my eager prayer 
Stands real to my sight — the Alps are there ! 
As we pass onward, wide and wider spread, 
Each slow-unfolded mountain lifts its head ; 
From those bright summits, which alone the sun, 
As they were Light's own home, fond dwells upon, 
To countless steeps, whose shooting streaks of snow 
Feather with radiance the dark rocks below, 
And black bare cliffs, before them, frowning rude, 
To centinel the trackless solitude. 

And last, laid meekly down at their huge feet, 
Soft spreads the lovely lake her ample sheet, 
That stretched in all its length, from bound to bound, 
From far-seen Chillon, circling gently round 
The rocky shores of beauteous Meillerie, 
Leads on in loveliness the willing eye, 
As in long winding bays her billows sleep, 
Or tower' d cities breast her tideless deep. 



35 



And where the distant verge of the dim wave 
Seems softly lapt beneath the grey Saleve, 
There stirs a mighty spirit — yon still air 
Tells not man's busy race is busiest there ; 
Unseen in that calm-seeming corner lie 
Thronged marts of trade, grave haunts of piety, 
And calm retreats of science, and thy thrones, 
Strict Law, whose only sway the freeman owns. 
There burst a mighty flame, that answered far 
The beacon-blaze of intellectual war, 
When rose the nations, and the priestly yoke 
Fell from them in their anger, and day broke. 
The despot pontiff, at thy humble name, 
Geneva, hush'd his thunders, and was tame. 



36 



CARRARA. 



Ages had rolPd, or e'er the hand of man 
Boldly the great career of Art began ; 
Unvalued and uri penetrated, then, 
Rose the rude mountains in Carrara's glen ; 
No fragment, from Lavenza's lonely shore, 
Had bade the world fall prostrate, and adore ; 
But in the rugged cliffs, unseen, untrod, 
Cold in the lifeless marble slept the God ; 
Till Genius started from his sleep, and spoke,. 
And the long night of countless ages broke ; 
Bade the rough precipice its stores unlock, 
Sent forth to fame the animated rock, 
And made the wonder-stricken nations own 
Unperishable life, in lifeless stone ► 



37 



NAPLES. 



Jamque abeo, placidosque sinus, et grata relinquo 
Litora, dileetumque per omnia ssecula ccelum. 
Fallor ? an hserenti mihi jam, gressumque prementi, 
Blandum nescio quid subridens pontus, amoeno 
Murmure tentat adhuc animum revocare, magisque 
Coeruleum jacit nnda jubar, solitoque videtur* 
Pulchrius ostendi pelagus, purusque magis sol ? 
Vado tamen — nee me, dum pectore viva vigebit 
Mens, tua, Partbenope, jucunda et dulcis imago 
Deficiet ; semper meminisse juvabit amatse 
Urbis, et antiqui portus, feralef minantis 
Montis, et adverso surgentis in sequore contra 
Insula? ; inexpletum recolam, absentesque videbor 
Cernere adhuc, mollesque sinus, hortosque, et amictos 
Vitibus innumeris colles, et celsa jugorum 
Dorsa procul, tremuloquef inversas sequore turres. 



* Gray. 

t Statius, ap. Cramer, " Italy." 



38 



— There, as the stranger's eye, at close of day, 
Tracks the faint circle of the distant bay, 
Soft gales of ocean health and peace impart. 
And joy steals slowly on the swelling heart. 



— Where lofty Agrigentum rears afar 
Walls, that securely inock'd barbaric war, 
And giant columns, linked in proud array, 
Where crouch, aghast, the children of to-day. 



39 



AT THE TRAGIC THEATRE AT PAESTUM. 



The mist of years rolls back — before my eyes 

The sovereign throng collects, the columns rise, 

Bright forms, in stately dance, 'mid breathings sweet 

Of high religious music, circling meet ; 

Then speaks the voice of courage, or of sense, 

Of deep distress, of winning eloquence, 

Of noble enterprise, of anxious care, 

Of high forgiveness, of soul-piercing prayer, 

And deep prophetic cursing, and the eye, 

Tearless* and fix'd, of sullen Destiny, 

And self-devoted death, and racking pain, 

And the dark visions of the fever' d brain, 

And virgin innocence, and saws of age, 

Deliberate despair, and headlong rage : 

All that the varied lights of life display, 

Of human passion's never-ceasing play, 

All that the poet's searching glance can find 

Stor'd in the trackless fastnesses of Mind. 



* S-qcxnr &K\avffTOis u/jL/JicHnp irpoai'iayti — /EsCH. 



40 



See, first emerging from the dusk of time, 
TV earliest* relic of a hand sublime, 
Of iEschylus, the Muse's boldest child, 
Rise like a far-seen ruin from the wild. 
See, to the kindred shores of Argos borne, 
The persecuted maids of Egypt mourn : 
Vaunt in high phrase their sky-descended race, 
Claim for their woes the suppliant's resting-place, 
Pour from their Nile-bred lips Ionian strains, 
As the lone exiPd nightingale complains, 
Yet look to him, who from his tow'r on high 
Strikes down the proud, and hears the feeble cry, 
Call boldly to the king of kings above, 
And trust, untemfy'd, their father Jove. 



* This alludes to the Suppliants of iEschylus ; hut the notion, that it 
is his first play is not countenanced by the learned at present. The 
following lines are taken from different passages in that tragedy, the 
most religious, perhaps, of all antique productions. 



41 



ATHENIAN COMEDY. 



Hark ! mid the throng* what moral thunder broke ? 
Was it the grave philosopher, that spoke ? 
Or orator, whose lips, withf nectar dew'd, 
Aw'd into sense the gathered multitude ? 
No — from yon gay, debauchful, comic scene, 
That, stufFd with ribaldry and jests obscene, 
Seem'cl born but in its bursts of wanton mirth, 
To degrade eminence, and slander worth, 



* It is observed, by Isocrates, that the Athenian people would not 
hear the truth from their orators in the public assemblies, where it might 
have been supposed that it was the precise object for which they met, 
and though they had it all to themselves, it being death for any stranger 
to be present : but that they suffered themselves to be freely satirized by 
the comedians, at performances which were frequented from all parts 
of Greece. 

The play of the Knights, or rather the Equestrian Order, by Aristo- 
phanes, exhibits the impersonated People as a doting old man, kept in 
confinement, and made a tool, by the demagogue Cleon, who is brought 
on the stage himself, and represented in the most odious, detestable, and 
ridiculous light. 

f Spenser. Book vii. 



42 



From thence the sacred voice was heard — free there, 
Truth taught the* tyrant People, what they were ; 
Bade them sit still and tremble, while her tongue 
Home to the quick their wincing vices stung ;t 
And made the noisy demagogue, whose trade 
Was blood, whom nations flattered, fear'd, and paid,{ 
See his face§ mimicked, hear his vaunted name 
Held up to execration and to shame. 



* rvpavvov £%6re ryyv ttoKiv. — thucyd. 
f — rubet auditor, cui conscia mens est 

Criminibus, tacita sudant praecordia culpa. — pers. 
% xpva'uj) tojp Tavra itoiovvtiov ifivovv to oro/xa. — aristoph. 
§ This seems to have been only attempted, as to Cleon ; but 
common in other instances, I believe. 



43 



THE LUCID INTERVAL 



A calm and gentle peace 
Sheds on me from on high, 

The bitter chidings cease, 
The tempest passes by. 

The cruel wounds are healing, 
The scattered thoughts unite, 

The soft and open feeling, 
The wishes plain and right. 

I, that have aim'd so high, 
To be despised and bound ! 

Yet there was still an eye 

That watched me on the ground. 

One while a brute in passion, 
One while a senseless clod, 

Too low for man's compassion, 
I had a friend in God. 



44 

My ills the fiercer are, 

Because but half I know them ; 
And those — I must not dare 

To my own thoughts to shew them. 

And have I ? — deep-dy'd shame, 

I never can remove ! — 
Yet once I hop'd for fame, 

Poor wretch ! and dream' d of love. 

I cry — she cannot hear me, 
— And do I wish she knew ? 

Once — did I see her near me ? 
mad ! to think that true ! 



45 



THE CRUSADES. 



No wielded sword, fierce flaming in the van, 

Ushered His mild and genial law to man ; 

No sweeping hosts, by felon prophets led, 

Forced the new faith on tribes discomfited : 

He came to bid the strife of passion cease, 

And works of mercy vouched for words of peace. — 

Shall not the region, by his footsteps prest, 

Be 'mid the torn world one fix'd point of rest ? 

Shall that blest spot, that highly favoured shore, 

Ever know wrath, or war, or hatred, more ? 

Shall not his voice still linger in the air, 

Forbidding aught but love to harbour there ? 

A thousand years may roll, but shall not still 

Meek Mercy brood on Sion's chosen hill ? 

— A thousand years have rolled — look now, and see, 

Are yon black bands the priests of Charity ? 

ShoaPd forth by myriads, and sheath' d in steel, 

Taught not to fear, and practis'd not to feel, 



46 



To slay, to ravage, and destroy, they come, 

These patient martyrs of meek Christendom ! 

Famine and blood close follow in their train, 

And lawless riot stamps its brutish stain. 

— Turn back the sickened gaze, and " melt with ruth," 

And ask, if these be Christians, what is truth ? 

Does it concern thee, Lord of earth and sky, 

Under what badge the fierce and bloody die ? 

Or, in thy sight, do the destroyers all, 

Frown' d on alike, for Cross or Crescent fall ? 



47 



How strange a thing it is, to live 

And learn but to confess, 
The times, when we may freely grieve, 

Times of most happiness ! 

Then, the small slaveries of life, 

That deaden, and molest, 
Enjoyments forced, and smother'd strife, 

Leave the clear thoughts at rest. 

world, thy gayer joys I know, 

Thy gifts I do not scorn ; 
Still, better few canst thou bestow, 

Than liberty to mourn. 



48 



My flow'rs may bloom, but not to thee, dear friend, 

Can I the firstlings of my garden send ; 

My fruits may ripen, but unheeded, now. 

They will drop off, or wither on the bough ; 

It was my pleasure, in the circling year, 

Each season's gifts to cull for one so dear ; 

Nothing came trifling to thy partial mind, 

Each herb was welcome, and each word was kind ; 

In helpless malady, and slow decay, 

Thy firm affections held but stronger sway ; 

Seem'd as their onward flow, and steady course, 

Swell'd with the loss of ev'ry other force ; 

And if my heart's devoted care could please, 

If my weak tributes gave a moment's ease, 

If, when thy recollection went and came, 

Thy last clear spirit faintly blest my name, 

— proud and mighty world, what real bliss 

Could all thy glories offer me, to this ! 



49 



Martyrs' Memorial! but whom have we there? 

Canst thou such honour, Cranmer, hope to share ? 

Put off that wreath, it fits not to thy brow ; 

Thou hast made martyrs, but no martyr thou. 

Crime is not hallowed by the torturing hour ; 

What were thy deeds, when arm'd thyself with pow*r ? 

A poor misguided maid chain'd down in flame, 

A prince, all goodness, urg'd to guilt and shame. 

Deeds, worthy of the means that raised thee first, 

Of lust and tyranny thou tool accurst. 

And when the tide was turned, and danger nigh, 

Didst thou, stern honest martyr, scorn to fly ? 

Teacher of millions to cast off their chain, 

Chief in revolt, didst thou lead on in pain ? 

Or, poor apostate, shrinking from the rod, 

Desert at once thy followers and thy God, 

And die but when the Cranmers of the day 

Deemed thy apostacy not worth its pay. 



All this, no doubt, would be too violent for prose ; and I wish, too, 
carefully to repudiate the natural inference that I am a follower of 
certain notions now prevailing at Oxford, for which I have no kind of 
admiration. 



II 



50 



GALATEA. 



The much-lovM maid is on the sea, 

To leave her native shore, 
To part from many friends, and me, 

Perhaps, to meet no more. 

Fan her, ye choicest gales of air, 

Beam gently on her, skies ; 
Round her, soft waves, to sooth her care, 

In all your beauty rise. 

And T, can I lift up my head, 

Subdu'd by numbing grief? 
Can thoughts or things, to heart so dead, 

Give interest or relief ? 

Is not the smiling face of day 

To me a dismal den, 
And like to savage* beasts of prey 

The cheerful ways of men ? 



* Petrarch. 



51 

no ! no moment since my birth 
More happiness was mine ; 

Not for the first, best joys of earth, 
Would I this state resign. 

If pleasure will not always last, 
Am I to call it pain ? 

1 brood on all my bliss overpast, 

On all my treasur'd gain. 

She leaves me, what I would not change 

For aught that Glory gives, 
Still fiVd, wherever she may range, 

Within my heart she lives. 



52 



SARRASIN, 



THE DUCHESS OF LONGUEVTLLE. 



Bright object of an universal flame, 
Whom king and regent, by their royal ban, 

Rebellious to their pow'r proclaim, 
And Cupid and his mother say the same, 
Traitor to kings below, and gods above ; 

Work out your quarrel as you can 

With Louis and with Anne, 
But make your peace with Venus and with Love. 



53 



r A$v ti jjloi \a\ayr)(Tov aw ayKeog, wkv peiQpov, 
TpavXov cite fip£(f)£0£ ffov to fieXur^a kXvsiv' 
Ai)TO(f)VEg, 7ro\vya$£C, aei veov 'wg apa jjloi (jtprjv 
Trj aeo Xvaiwovo) SaXirercu evfjLeXir}. 



54 



I am weak, unapt for strife, 

Little care I for the many ; 
In my narrow path of life, 

Few have known me well, if any. 
My young heart was never bold, 

What I might have had, it lost me ; 
Now I am depressed and old, 

Late I feel, how much it cost me. 
But some kindly beams I see 
Shed a light and life on me. 



55 



Dear , did thy disembodied soul, 

When first set free, shed influence over mine ? 

Did thy fine feeling my dull clay control, 
Thy spirit work with me in ev'ry line ? 



56 



The faculties of life decay, 

I dread the stealth of creeping years, 
A wretched, melancholy prey 

To vain regrets, and gloomy fears. 
But one sweet hope supports me still, 

I feel, when all unapt to move, 
Unfit to think, afraid to will, 

Yet, fiVd as ever, I can love. 
When force shall from the limbs depart, 

And thought oppress the feeble brain, 
And courage leave the fainting heart, 

Unchanging love may still remain. 



57 



Sleep, dread blast, the twin of death, 

Thought, and sense, and motion stealing ; 

— Kind restorer, balmy breath, 

Pain, and care, and labour, healing ! 

Is then life a gift bestowed, 

Sad to lose, and sweet to cherish ? 

Or a fretful, weary load, 

Gain, its loss ? a boon, to perish ? 

But in sleep, the fancy waking, 

In another world than this, 
Wild its range in freedom taking, 

Paints imaginary bliss. 

Vain ! the dream dissolves in day, 
Stern and rude, the certain morrow 

Tears our bright, gay film away, 

Mock'd with joy, to sharpen sorrow. 



58 



America, thy name recalls the strange 

And wild vicissitudes of human fate, 

The dark, untried, futurity of change, 

That can the fancied views of mortals uncreate. 

As one in proud imagination fails, 

Brought down to helpless shame, 

Another, frustrate of his humbler aim, 

As the bright star prevails, 

Rises to unexpected heights of fame. 

So far'd it, in our stirring times of old, 

With kindred souls of manly mould ; 

See, from before a monarch's face, 

Hampden and Cromwell, when their hope was dead, 

Escaping, to a poor and infant race, 

Unconscious of their weightier destinies ; 

Compelled, by that same pow'r from which they fled, 

To stay, and brood upon their dormant energies, 

Till the late burst of gather'd rancour came, 

Then, fan the long-pent flame, 

Till they had crushed that pow'r to dust, and clean 

discomfited. 
Milton, content with fame at home, 
Grasp' d at no foreign immortality ; 



59 

Let me, said he, for ages yet to come, 
Be read where Ouse and Trent shall flow, 
Let distant Tweed my labours know, 
And farthest, if my voice can stretch so far, 
Amid their elemental war, 

The* storm-swept Orkneys learn my lays, while I 
Securef within my peaceful tomb shall lie. 
— By Ganges and Ohio, mighty bard, 
To far Oregon's western bay, 
To the great Southern queen of isles, and some 
Smallest, that gem the wide Pacific foam, 
And shore of multitudinous proud Cathay, 
Thy voice is heard ! 

In realms, unknown when thou didst frame thy lay, 
Thy verse is as thej household words of man, 
Whatever clime the sun's bright path can scan, 
Upon it never shuts the eye of day, 

Nor shall, when thy own England's pow'r, and freedom, 
shall decay. 



The idea of this is taken from Milton's Epitaphium Daraonis, and 
letter to Diodati. 
* W. Scott, 
f Milt. Mansus. 
I Shakesp. Henry V. 



60 



WRITTEN IN SIR HENRY HALFORD'S ESSAYS. 

PAGE 110. 



Donec jam morte sub ipsa 
Nubila discutiuntur, et incorrapta magis mens 
Elucet ; necnon venturi prsescia lingua 
iEtherio sonat afflatu ; comitemque caducum 
Reppulit, et victrix superas anima exit in auras. 



LONDON : 

Printed by Schulze & Co., 13, Poland Street, 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



\ 



I 



J #v ( 




014 152 769 1 * 



IK 









:■*■".••' 




.■':;'' 


■' { 'i ''■' 


191 


is! 


" ' ' >' 


SBR 


if 


jgffi 





■ /v 



» ' 






Sffmo 



